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 A MODERN BORGIA.
During his long and remarkable career, Danevitch was called upon
to solve problems of a very varied nature, and, while his efforts were
not always crowned with success—and he never hesitates in his
journals to confess his failures—the percentage of his triumphs was
very large. Necessarily, of course, his work lay amongst the by-ways
and alleys of life, so to speak; for so long as there are crimes and
criminals—and that will be as long as the world lasts—men must be
found who will endeavour to lessen the one and bring the other to
book. In his own particular way, Danevitch was a genius; and it
almost seemed sometimes as if Nature had endowed him with an
eighth sense, for he saw and grasped points which no one else
could see. Although a born detective, there are many other callings
in which he might have risen to eminence, notably that of the stage.
He was a perfect actor, and his powers of mimicry and of changing
his expression and personal appearance were little short of
marvellous. He could with ease assume the rôle of an ambassador
or a peasant market woman, and he possessed to a remarkable
degree the faculty of patience, which is indispensable to anyone who
wishes to distinguish himself in the detective’s art. Moreover, he was
well educated, and a fluent linguist, and these accomplishments
helped him immensely. In referring to the case which I am now about
to relate, he himself speaks of it as ‘a remarkable and complicated
one,’ which all but baffled him; and he cites it as an example of the
depths of depravity to which human nature is capable of descending.
It appeared that one summer night Colonel Ignatof, who was in
command of an infantry regiment of the line, temporarily stationed in
Moscow, returned to his barracks after being out all the evening,
and, complaining of being very ill, ordered that the regimental doctor
should be immediately sent for. From the time that the order was
given to the arrival of the doctor in the commanding officer’s room
not more than ten minutes elapsed. But during that short space the
Colonel had vomited violently, and the doctor found him lying on the
bed, cold, pallid, and collapsed. The soldier-servant who was with
him said that his master had suffered awfully, and had described his
feelings as if a fire was raging in his inside. The doctor administered
remedies, which so far had a good effect that the patient rallied, and
on being asked if he could account for his sudden illness—he had
always been an exceedingly robust and healthy man—he faintly
murmured that he believed it was attributable to some iced fish soup
(a favourite Russian dish), of which he had partaken freely. He
thought it probable that the fish from which the soup had been
concocted were not quite fresh. It seemed a natural supposition, for
the intense heat of the short Russian summer makes it very difficult
to keep meat and fish fresh for many hours.
He was next asked where he had partaken of the soup, but before
he could give an answer he was again seized with violent retching.
When the spasm had passed, he collapsed once more, and all the
remedies that were tried failed to restore him. He continued,
however, to breathe for two hours, and then died. As the symptoms
from which the unfortunate man had suffered were identical with
those set up by irritant poison, an order was received that a post-
mortem examination was to be made. In due course this order was
carried out, and resulted in the discovery that death was due to an
irritant poison that had set up violent inflammation of the stomach.
This seemed to be quite consistent with the unfortunate man’s own
theory that his illness was due to unwholesome soup.
The fish soup is a very common dish in Russia. It is made from
various kinds of fish boiled to a pulp. It is then highly seasoned,
thickened with rich, luscious cream; a quantity of olive-oil is next
added, and the mess is iced until it is nearly frozen. It is a singularly
seductive dish, but only those who have strong stomachs can stand
it. As it is only partaken of in the summer, great care has to be
exercised that the fish is quite fresh. Any carelessness in this respect
is apt to produce serious illness. The peasantry, who cannot afford
cream, and enrich the soup with large quantities of inferior oil, often
suffer severely, and not infrequently die, after a hearty meal of this
national soup, for as often as not the fish used is stale, and, as most
people know, decaying fish is a virulent poison.
It was a knowledge of these facts which no doubt led the medical
men to jump to the conclusion that the Colonel’s death was entirely
due to the soup, a conclusion that seemed quite justified by what the
dying man himself had said. Some attempt was made to discover
where he had dined, but as this was not successful, the doctors
certified that the deceased had died from internal inflammation after
partaking of soup which was probably not fresh. Here the matter
ended. The dead man was buried with military pomp and ceremony,
and many eulogies were uttered over his grave. It was known
amongst his intimate friends that he was a married man, but owing to
‘incompatibility’ he and his wife had long lived apart. All his effects he
left by will to a nephew named Peter Baranoff, who was a Captain in
an artillery regiment, which was also stationed in Moscow.
It was generally supposed that Colonel Ignatof was well off, if not
wealthy, but it became known after his death that he died worth very
little. This gave rise to much gossip, and it was more than hinted that
he had squandered his means and substance on a certain lady to
whom he had been greatly attached. However, these little incidents
were not so rare as to cause any great surprise, and the Colonel and
his affairs were soon forgotten, and the world went on as usual.
Colonel Ignatof had been in his grave about twelve months, when
Moscow was furnished with another sensation. Although he had died
poor, relatively, his nephew had got something like three thousand
pounds, besides a fair amount of jewellery, some plate, books, and
other odds and ends. The young fellow had never been very steady,
and after his uncle’s death launched out into excesses which brought
him under the notice of his superiors; and he was warned that he
would have to regulate his conduct a little better or he might be
called upon to resign his commission, as his name was mixed up
with a good many scandals, and there had been much talk about
certain gambling debts he had incurred and was unable to meet.
However, an unexpected and effective stop was put to his ‘goings
on,’ and set everybody talking again.
Late one night a man was picked up near one of the gates of the
Kremlin wall in a state of unconsciousness, and was conveyed by a
police patrol to the nearest station-house, as the natural inference
was that he was intoxicated. He was speedily identified as Captain
Peter Baranoff, from cards and letters found in his pockets. Within
half an hour of his admission his symptoms had become so serious
as to cause alarm, and it was deemed advisable to communicate
with the military authorities. No time was lost in doing this, but before
any instructions could be received Baranoff collapsed, and within an
hour of his admission he was dead, in spite of all the efforts made to
restore him to consciousness and prolong his life.
The case, as may be supposed, surrounded with mystery as it was,
caused an immense sensation. The deceased man’s social position,
his connection with the army, and the financial difficulties in which it
was thought he was involved, removed the matter out of the sphere
of an ordinary affair, and it was the ‘talk of the town.’ As no reason
could be assigned for his premature decease, an autopsy was made,
and it was then found that, as in his uncle’s case, there was violent
inflammation of the coats of the stomach and the intestinal track. In
the stomach itself were the remains of some half-digested morsels of
fish; and it was also made evident that a little while before his death
the deceased had partaken freely of vodka. This led to the
supposition—which was probably correct—that intoxication was
accountable for the unconscious condition in which he was found;
but intoxication would not account for his death. He was a young
fellow of splendid physique, and none of the organs were diseased.
His death, therefore, was not due to any natural cause; and after
some discussion amongst the medical men, it was decided to certify
that he had died from eating impure food, which, by its poisonous
action, had set up inflammation, which had been much aggravated
by the vodka. Of course, there was a good deal of curiosity to know
where he had spent the evening, and how it was he should have
been wandering alone outside of the Kremlin until he fell
unconscious. The inference was that he had been revelling with
friends at one or other of the numerous haunts which abound in
Moscow, and which often lure young men to their destruction. Some
attempt was made to trace his movements on the evening of his
death; but all the attempt resulted in was that it was proved he left
his quarters between six and seven. He was in private clothes, and
he incidentally mentioned to a friend that he was going to the opera,
and afterwards intended to sup with a lady acquaintance. He did go
to the opera, but left early—that is, before ten o’clock. From that time
until he was picked up unconscious later there was a blank that
could not be filled in.
Strangely enough, at this time there was no suspicion of foul play.
That he should die in a similar manner to his uncle was considered
rather remarkable, but there the surprise ended. But within a week of
the burial a sharp-eyed and thoughtful medical student, who was
pursuing his studies in the great college at Moscow, addressed a few
lines to the Moscow Gazette, in which he ventured to suggest that
the doctors who examined Baranoff’s body had failed in their duty in
not causing a chemical analysis to be made of the contents of the
deceased man’s stomach; and he advanced the opinion that both
Baranoff and his uncle had been wilfully done to death.
At first this idea was laughed at. It was spoken of as being
‘ridiculous,’ and the suspicion of foul play utterly unjustified. In a few
hours, however, public opinion changed. It would be difficult to tell
why, unless on the hypothesis that a new sensation was wanted. A
clamour arose, and grave doubts were thrown upon the doctors’
judgment. Now, in Russia public opinion has not the weight that it
has in England, and the popular voice is often stifled whenever it
begins to grow a little too loud. But in this case there were certain
details which lent a good deal of weight to the suspicion of foul play;
and in official quarters, after much discussion, it was considered
advisable that some notice should be taken of it. Probably it would
have been otherwise but for the seeming fact that the medical men
had done their duty in a very perfunctory way, and had not been at
sufficient pains to establish the accuracy of the conclusion they
came to from what they saw during their scientific investigations. It
was pointed out that all the symptoms exhibited by the two men were
quite compatible with the suggestions of drug-poisoning; that the
theory that both met their end through inadvertently partaking of
stale fish was so remarkable a coincidence that it could not be
regarded as a commonplace matter; and that in the interest of
justice, no less than of science, some further investigation should be
permitted.
In the end an official order was issued that Baranoff’s body should
be exhumed, and the usual means taken to test, by the aid of
chemical knowledge, whether or not the deceased man came by
death through an accident, through natural causes, or as the victim
of foul play. In order to leave nothing to be desired in the way of
research, a Professor of Chemistry, who stood at the very top of the
profession, was instructed to make the analysis. This he did, with the
result that he came to the conclusion that the deceased had met his
death from a strong dose of black hellebore. As soon as the
authorities were informed of the result of the analysis, they had
Colonel Ignatof’s body taken up and subjected to chemical
examination. And in this instance also the Professor declared that
death had been brought about by black hellebore.
At this period black hellebore was by no means a well-known poison
outside the medical profession, and the average doctor was perhaps
quite ignorant of the morbid symptoms it set up in the human subject
when a fatal dose was administered. It is classed amongst what is
known as the true narcotico-acrids, and bears the botanical name of
Helleborus niger, and is familiar to the general public as the
Christmas rose. Few people, however, who admire the beautiful
rose-tinted flowers of the Christmas rose, which serve to enliven the
house in the gloomy winter months, have any idea how deadly a
poison can be extracted from its roots and leaves. Its active
principle, according to chemists, is an oily matter containing an acid.
Its effects on the human being are violent retching and vomiting,
delirium, convulsions, and intense internal pains. These symptoms
generally appear in from an hour to two hours after the fatal dose is
swallowed, and death usually results in about six hours. If
administered in alcohol or food of any kind, no suspicion is aroused
on the part of the person who takes it, as the taste is quite disguised.
The morbid appearances produced in the human body are
inflammation of the stomach, the digestive canal, and particularly the
great intestines. Poisonous fish or food of any kind almost will
produce these symptoms. Therefore the medical men who certified
that Colonel Ignatof and his nephew, Captain Baranoff, both died
from the effects of impure fish used for soup were misled, and
jumped to too hasty a conclusion. Some excuse would be found for
them, however, in the fact that the effects of hellebore were not as
well known then as now; at any rate, not in Russia. And as the
Colonel’s own dying opinion was that his illness was due to the iced
fish soup he had partaken of, it was perhaps pardonable, all the
other circumstances considered, that the doctors should have been
put upon a false scent, and it is pretty certain that but for the medical
student’s letter to the Moscow Gazette, which sounded the alarm, no
suspicion of foul play would have been aroused.
Like most vegetable poisons, hellebore is difficult to detect, and it
can only be discovered in the dead body by means of the most
delicate tests. The chemical Professor who was charged with the
important duty of examining the remains of Ignatof and Baranoff had
made toxicology an especial study, and he had given particular
attention to the very large class of vegetable poisons, having
travelled for this purpose in various countries. He stood at the head
of his profession in Russia, and it was owing to his skill and care,
and the technical knowledge he brought to bear, that he was
enabled, beyond all doubt, to establish the fact that the two subjects
he was charged to examine were the victims of poison.
So much having been determined, the question was mooted whether
or not the poison had been administered wilfully or accidentally. The
theory of accident was at once negatived. It was like an outrage on
common-sense to ask anyone to believe that two men, related to
each other, should each die within a year from precisely the same
cause. The coincidence was too remarkable to be admitted as
probable; therefore the matter resolved itself into murder—it was an
ugly word, and all the incidents suggested a tragedy of no ordinary
kind. The case was placed in the hands of the chief of police, who
was instructed to use every means possible to unravel the mystery.
An attempt was at once made to trace the movements of the two
men for some hours before their death. In the Colonel’s case this
was not an easy matter, as he had been dead for a year; but it was
discovered that Captain Baranoff called on a friend of his—a civilian
named Alexander Vlassovsky, who lived in a villa just on the fringe of
the town—and they went together to a café-restaurant, where they
dined. After dinner they played billiards for a short time, when they
separated, as Vlassovsky had an assignation with a lady. He did not
know where Baranoff was going to. He did not ask him, and the
Captain volunteered no information. It was proved, however, that he
went to the opera, and left about ten. It was stated most positively
that when Baranoff quitted the café he was in the pink of health, and
in most excellent spirits. Some hours later he was found in a state of
unconsciousness outside of the Kremlin walls. It followed, therefore,
if the story about the café was correct—and there was no reason to
doubt it—that Baranoff must have partaken of the fatal dose a short
time before he was discovered, for the action of the poison is very
rapid. From the time, however, of his leaving to the time he was
discovered unconscious all remained a blank. Nothing could be
ascertained of his movements. It was obvious that wherever he had
been to, or whoever were the people he had been with, somebody
had an interest in keeping his movements dark, as the efforts of the
police quite failed to elicit any information. It was the same in the
Colonel’s case, and no one could discover where he had been to on
the fatal night. Moscow is a large city, honeycombed with evil haunts;
crime flourishes there to a greater extent than in any other town or
city in the whole of Russia. It has been the scene of very many
deeds of violence, for blackguardism is rampant, and numerous are
the traps for the unwary. Its population is perhaps more varied than
that of any other city of the world. Here may be seen cut-throats from
the Levant; fishermen and sailors from the Baltic; Circassians,
Cossacks, Tartars, Persians, Bokharians, Georgians, Greeks, and
Jews of almost every nationality. It may be imagined that in such a
place, and amongst such a heterogeneous collection of humanity,
wickedness of every description finds a congenial soil.
Notwithstanding that, Moscow is known to all Russians as ‘The Holy
City,’ and a devout Russian, who pins his faith to the Russo-Greek
Church, regards Moscow with the same veneration that a
Mohammedan looks upon Mecca.
After several weeks of fruitless effort to solve the mystery in which
the deaths of Colonel Ignatof and his nephew was involved, the
police had to confess themselves baffled. It seemed pretty evident
that both men had been cruelly done to death by the hand of an
assassin. But whose was the hand that committed the deed, and the
motive for it, could not be ascertained.
It was at this stage of the proceedings that a request was made to
Michael Danevitch—who was then in St. Petersburg—to come
through to Moscow, and endeavour to solve the mystery. He
complied with the request, and at once waited upon General
Govemykin, the military governor of the city, by the General’s special
desire.
‘I want you,’ said the General, ‘to use every means that your skill can
suggest to clear up the mystery surrounding the deaths of Colonel
Ignatof and Captain Baranoff. Both these gentlemen were murdered;
of that there seems to be no doubt; and the murderers must be
brought to book. During the last few years a good many soldiers
have lost their lives in this city by foul play, and in several instances
justice has gone unsatisfied. Now two officers, men of unblemished
reputation and good social position, are killed by the same means,
and yet the police are unable to bring the crime home to anyone. It
seems to me that it is little short of disgraceful that the police
supervision of a city like this is so deficient.’
‘Is it deficient?’ asked Danevitch.
‘Yes; otherwise, how is it officers and gentlemen can be brutally done
to death and the murderers escape?’
‘As far as I gather, this is no ordinary crime,’ remarked Danevitch.
‘Well, perhaps not; but it shows a weakness in the organization when
our police fail to get the slightest clue to the perpetrator of the crime.
Now, what are you going to do?’
‘I don’t know,’ Danevitch answered, as brusquely as the General
asked the question.
‘If you don’t know, what is the use of your taking the matter in hand?’
‘Pardon me, General, but I am not a prophet, therefore I cannot
foretell what I am going to do.’
‘Well, no, perhaps not; but you must have some idea of the lines you
intend to proceed upon.’
‘I shall simply try to succeed where the police have failed.’
‘And you may fail, too,’ exclaimed the General, who was a little
piqued by Danevitch’s brusqueness.
‘Oh, that is very likely,’ was the answer.
‘If you do, I’ll take some other and more drastic means to solve the
problem. Officers and men under my control shall not be done to
death with impunity.’
Danevitch was not affected by this display of temper, and when the
subject had been exhausted he withdrew. He recognised that the
case was a difficult one, and, in view of the fact that the police had
exhausted all their efforts, he was by no means sanguine, although
he was of the opinion that the ordinary methods of the Russian
police were very clumsy, and, in their eagerness to lay their hands
on somebody, and their fossilized belief that the whole populace was
ever engaged in some deep and dark conspiracy against constituted
authority, they often committed the most ludicrous errors. He never
hesitated to condemn the police methods of his country. He
described them as inartistic, unscientific, and brutal. His
outspokenness on this score made him very unpopular with the
police, and they did not like him to have anything to do with cases in
which they had failed. It is needless to say this did not disturb him.
He had an independent mind; he worked by his own methods, and
he never allowed himself to be influenced by jealousy or ill-will.
His first step in connection with Colonel Ignatof’s death was to try
and get hold of his private letters and papers, as he was of opinion
that they might furnish him with a keynote; but he was informed that
private documents of all kinds belonging to the Colonel had passed
into the possession of his nephew, and when the nephew died all his
papers were secured by his executor, who declined to allow them to
be seen by anyone until he himself had gone through them; for,
though he did not give it as his reason, he was afraid of anything
becoming known that might cause a family scandal. Danevitch next
sought an interview with Alexander Vlassovsky, with whom Captain
Baranoff had dined on the night he met his death.
Vlassovsky was a fashionable young man, and lived in what was
known as the Slobodi quarter, where most of the wealthy merchants
had their villas. The business he carried on in the city was that of a
stockbroker, and, judging from his surroundings and the style he kept
up, he was in a flourishing way. He was a bachelor, and made no
secret about it that he was fond of gaiety.
According to the account he gave, he had been acquainted with
Baranoff for a long time, and had lent him considerable sums of
money to enable him to keep up his extravagances; for though
Baranoff’s people were people of note, and exceedingly proud, they
were not rich. At any rate, the young man was not able to get much
from them, and his pay as a Captain was too small to enable him to
uphold the position he aspired to. Of course, his financial
transactions with Vlassovsky had been kept very secret, for had they
become known to the military authorities, he would have got into
serious trouble.
It will thus be seen that the relations between the young men were
those of borrower and lender. They were not friends in the ordinary
sense. Indeed, Vlassovsky remarked to Danevitch with some
bitterness:
‘You know, like most young officers, he was as proud as Lucifer, and
seemed to think I was not his equal; though he was never averse to
dine with me and drink wine at my expense.’
‘Why did he come to you on the night of his death?’
‘To borrow money.’
‘Did you lend him any?’
‘Yes.’
‘How much?’
‘Two hundred roubles.’
‘What security did he give you for the various sums you lent him?’
‘Nothing beyond his acknowledgment.’
‘And you were satisfied with that?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘Because, if he had failed me at any time, I could have reported him
to the military authorities, and that would have been his ruin.’
‘But you never had occasion to do that?’
‘No, certainly not.’
‘Did he ever pay you back any of the money he borrowed?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘Where did he get the money from to pay his debts?’
‘How can I tell you that? He did not make me his confidant.’
‘Did he owe you much at the time of his death?’
‘Yes.’
‘How much?’
‘Nearly ten thousand roubles.’
‘That is a large sum! I suppose you will lose it?’
‘Oh dear no!’
‘Why? Did he die worth money?’
‘His life was insured for ten thousand. I hold the policy and a letter
from him to the effect that, should he die before paying me my due, I
was to receive the policy money.’
‘Have you any idea where he spent his last evening, after leaving
you?’
‘It is known that he went to the opera, because some acquaintances
saw him there.’
‘But after that?’
‘I haven’t the remotest idea.’
‘Do you know nothing of his affairs of gallantry?’
‘Absolutely nothing.’
‘You think, however, that he had lady acquaintances?’
‘I should say there isn’t a doubt about it. He was wild.’
‘And possibly his death was due to jealousy on the part of a rival?’
‘Very possibly.’
‘Did you know his uncle?’
‘I did.’
‘Did you accommodate him with money?’
‘Yes, occasionally.’
‘Was he in your debt when he died?’
‘No; he paid me all he owed me a little while before his death.’
‘Have you any theory to suggest with reference to the deaths of
these two gentlemen?’
‘None whatever.’
‘Were you very much surprised when you heard of the strange way
in which they both died?’
‘I can’t say that I was.’
‘Why were you not?’ asked Danevitch quickly.
‘In the first place, I didn’t know they had been murdered.’
‘But when you did?’
‘Then I thought they had made themselves obnoxious to somebody,
and the somebody had put them out of the way.’
‘And yet you have no idea who that somebody is?’
‘No.’
Danevitch stopped his questioning at this point. As he left the house
of Alexander Vlassovsky he was of opinion he had ‘struck a trail’—to
quote his own words—and he began to think out the ways and
means of proving whether he was right or wrong.
In a semi-fashionable quarter of St. Petersburg lived a lady known
generally as Madame Julie St. Joseph. She was of French origin, but
had been a great many years in Russia. Her husband had carried on
business in Moscow as an engraver and chromo-lithographer. He
had been dead, however, a very long time, and seemed to have
passed from the public mind; but it was vaguely remembered that he
was almost old enough at the time of his death to have been his
wife’s grandfather.
Julie St. Joseph was exceedingly handsome, and at this period was
about forty years of age. She might have passed, however, for being
even younger, as she was remarkably well preserved, fresh-looking,
bright of eye, and with an abundance of animal spirits, which
seemed rather to indicate the girl than the matured woman. Much
wonder was very naturally expressed that the pretty widow had
remained a widow so long, for, as was well known, she had had
offers of marriage innumerable, and might, had she been so
disposed, have made an excellent match. But the pretty Julie was
fond of gaiety and freedom. As a wealthy widow—it was universally
believed that she was wealthy—she could do as she liked, and
attract around her men of all sorts and conditions, and of all ages.
They paid her homage. She held them, so to speak, in her hand; she
could twist them round her fingers. Quarrels about her were
innumerable, and more than one jealous and hot-blooded fellow had
lost his life in a duel of which the bewitching Julie was the cause.
The style she elected to live in was compatible with the possession
of riches. She kept up a splendid establishment; her house was
sumptuously furnished; she had numerous servants, many horses.
Her winter sledges were renowned for their luxurious appointments;
her summer carriages were almost unique. She was a woman of the
most sybaritic tastes; and every taste was pandered to and
pampered. Among her servants was a Creole; he was a man of
medium height, though of powerful build, and with a sullen, morose
expression. He was always called Roko, but of his origin and history
nothing was known. He seemed to be very strongly attached to his
mistress, and always attended her wherever she went; but no man
endowed with the faculty of speech could have been more silent
than he was. He rarely spoke, except when compelled to answer
some question; and it was rumoured that, like a faithful hound, he
slept at his mistress’s door, and kept watch and ward over her during
the hours of night, while during the day he obeyed her slightest beck
or call.
It was the beginning of the Russian New Year, and Madame Julie St.
Joseph gave a ball. It was a very grand ball; everything was done on
a lavish scale, and the pomp and magnificence was almost on a par
with a State function. The people, however, who attended the
widow’s festive gathering could not lay claim to any high social
position—at any rate, not so far as the ladies were concerned. The
ladies who were in the habit of frequenting the pretty Julie’s salons
were of questionable reputations. Julie was not recognised as a
person of social distinction, and in the female world some rather
cruel things were said about her. The men, however, represented
many grades of life: the Army, Navy, Law; the Diplomatic Service;
Art, Literature, the Drama—intellectual Bohemia generally, though
not a few of these men were at considerable pains to conceal the
fact that they visited the charming widow, for, had it been generally
known, their own women-folk might have protested in a way that
would have been anything but pleasant, and they would have found
themselves ostracised in those higher circles in which many of them
moved. Probably Madame St. Joseph was indifferent to the opinions
of her own sex, so long as she could exact homage from men; and
there could be no two opinions about the power which she wielded
over the sterner sex. It was, therefore, scarcely matter for wonder
that the ladies of St. Petersburg should feel embittered against her.
When a man is jealous, he takes a rough-and-ready means of
showing his jealousy; if he has a rival, he generally ‘goes for him,’
and the best man wins. A woman’s jealousy, on the other hand, finds
expression in a different way. In her bitterness she would sully the
reputation of a spotless angel, and her mother-tongue has no words
strong enough wherewith to express her hatred. No wonder that the
old painters, in depicting jealousy, always took a female as a model.
Of course Madame Julie St. Joseph’s beauty, and the power it
enabled her to wield, made the women very jealous indeed; but if her
female guests lacked quality, the deficiency was amply compensated
for by the high standing of many of the men. She knew, and was
proud of the fact, that there was hardly a man in Russia, no matter
how exalted his position, that she could not have brought to her
footstool had she desired to do so. Such a woman was necessarily
bound to become notorious and have numberless enemies. But the
widow was beautiful, she was rich, she gave grand receptions, she
spent money liberally; therefore she had no difficulty in rallying
around her a powerful body of adherents; and, while half St.
Petersburg spoke ill of her, the other half lauded her.
Amongst the guests who attended the ball in question was a dark-
skinned, somewhat peculiar-looking man, said to be a Polish Count,
named Prebenski. He had a heavy moustache and beard, and wore
spectacles. As he appeared to be an entire stranger to the company,
the hostess took him for a time under her wing; but, as he could not
or would not dance, and seemed to find irresistible attraction in the
buffet, where there were unlimited supplies of vodka, as well as
wines of all kinds, she left him to his own devices, and bestowed the
favour of her smiles on more congenial guests. At length the Count,
from the effects, apparently, of too great a consumption of strong
drinks, sought a quiet nook in an anteroom, and ensconcing himself
in a large chair, sank into a heavy sleep. Some time later, when the
night was growing very old and the grayness of the winter dawn was
beginning to assert itself, and the guests had dwindled down to a
mere handful, Roko, the Creole, entered the room. Seeing the Count
sleeping there, he paused for a moment as if surprised; then he
shook the guest roughly, but getting no response, save a grunt, he
went away, returning in a few minutes with another man. That man
was Alexander Vlassovsky, who approached the Count, shook him,
called him, and being no more successful in his efforts to arouse him
than Roko had been, he told Roko to carry him upstairs to a
bedroom. That was done, and the Count was tossed upon a bed and
left there; but before half an hour had passed Vlassovsky came into
the room carrying a small shaded lamp, for though it was fully
daylight heavy curtains were drawn at the window.
He passed the light of the lamp over the sleeping man’s eyes, shook
him, called him, but as the Count remained unconscious of these
efforts, the intruder placed the lamp on a small table and, seating
himself in a chair by the bedside, began to search the pockets of the
guest. The search resulted in the production of a miscellaneous
collection of articles, which were duly returned; but at last a pocket-
book was drawn forth; it was opened, and found to contain a
considerable number of bank-notes, representing in the aggregate a
large sum of money. These notes Vlassovsky took the liberty of
transferring to his own pocket, and replacing the lightened pocket-
book, withdrew.
Some hours later Count Prebenski rang the bell in his room, and in
response to the summons Roko appeared, bearing a lamp. The
Count eyed him for some moments in apparent astonishment, and
then asked:
‘Where am I?’
‘In the house of Madame Julie St. Joseph.’
‘What is the hour?’
‘It is three o’clock.’
‘In the morning?’
‘No. The afternoon.’ Roko drew the curtains, and revealed the bright,
steel-coloured winter sky, tinged a little towards the horizon with a
flush of red.
The Count seemed puzzled. He stared first at the sky, then at the
Creole.
‘How is it I am here?’ he asked.
Roko revealed all his gleaming teeth as he grinned in reply.
‘How is it I am here?’ repeated the Count, peremptorily and hotly.
‘Your Excellency indulged too freely in liquor, and we had to put you
to bed.’
‘Umph!’ mused the Count; ‘it was kind; now, tell me, did your
mistress, Madame St. Joseph, know of my condition?’
‘She did.’
‘Was she angry?’
‘Well, Excellency, she certainly wasn’t pleased.’
‘Ah! I fear I have made a bea—— a fool of myself. Give me the
wherewith to put myself in a presentable condition, and I will see
madam. By the way, has she risen yet?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘Good; as soon as I have performed my toilet, return here and
conduct me to your mistress.’
Roko bowed and withdrew. In half an hour he came back again, and,
followed by the Count, led the way to Madame St. Joseph’s boudoir,
a very comfortable little retreat, daintily furnished, cosy and bright
with knick-knacks, cushions, curtains, luxurious rugs, and warmed to
the high temperature beloved of Russians by means of a polished
metal radiating stove. Dressed in a most elegant fur-trimmed
dressing-gown, madame was stretched upon a divan. Beside her
was a Moorish table, on which stood coffee and cigarettes. She was
smoking as the Count entered. Without rising, she extended her
delicate white hand to him, and, smiling sweetly, said:
‘Pray be seated, Count. Roko, pour out some coffee. Will you take
vodka or cognac with it, Count?’
The Count chose vodka, and his wants having been supplied, the
lady bade Roko retire.
‘I owe you an apology, madame,’ began the Count. ‘I forgot myself
last night. It was good of you to take care of me. I am deeply
indebted to you for your hospitality.’
‘Oh, a mere trifle,’ smiled the lady. ‘My faithful slave found you
asleep in a chair, and as his efforts failed to awaken you, he carried
you upstairs by my orders.’
At this point in the conversation the door opened, and Vlassovsky
appeared on the threshold; but seeing that madame had a visitor, he
quickly withdrew.
‘I am sorry to say I am the victim of a strange weakness,’ answered
the Count. ‘I am a temperate man, but should I be tempted to indulge
beyond my ordinary allowance it throws me into a sort of coma, from
which I only recover after many hours of death-like sleep.’
‘You are to be pitied, Count.’
‘Your pity is worth having,’ he answered. ‘Now, tell me, madame,
what penalty am I to pay for having so far forgotten myself?’
‘Penalty, Count!’
‘Yes. I am wealthy. Money is no object to me. I have notes. I am
almost alone in the world.’
‘Indeed!’ exclaimed the lady, with animation, and regarding her guest
with new-born interest; ‘you are fortunate. I presume you are staying
here temporarily?’
‘Yes. I am travelling for my pleasure. When our mutual friend Trepoff
was good enough to ask you to extend your courtesy to me, and
sent me an invitation to your ball, I accepted it with pleasure, and
was glad to leave the loneliness of my hotel; but it grieves me sorely
to think that I so forgot myself.’
‘Pray, Count, do not let the matter give you any concern,’ said the
charming widow, as she sat up and again extended her soft hand to
him to kiss. ‘Are you likely to remain in St. Petersburg long?’
‘My stay will be regulated by the amount of pleasure I experience
here. But a hotel is not the most comfortable place in the winter, and
I confess I feel dull and lonely.’
The lady fixed her keen eyes upon him as she remarked:
‘Indeed, I can well understand that, Count. Now, if I might venture to
ask you to make my poor abode your residence during your stay in
the city, it would afford me great pleasure to play the hostess. Will
you accept of my hospitality?’
‘Really, Madame St. Joseph, I, I——’
‘Pray, no thanks or excuses, Count; the pleasure is mine, and I will
endeavour at least to prevent your suffering from ennui.’
The Count rose, and warmly pressing her hand, said he was
overwhelmed by her goodness, and no less enchanted with her
beauty. He accepted her invitation in the spirit, in which it was given,
and without losing any time would hasten to his hotel, pay his bill,
and remove his things at once to madame’s house. An hour later he
drove up in a drosky with his luggage, and was conducted to the
handsomest of the guest-chambers. That night he dined tête-à-tête
with madame, and in the course of the dinner he told her that the
previous night he managed to lose, or had been relieved of, in some
way, a large sum of money. When she uttered exclamations of
regret, and expressed her sympathy with him, he laughed carelessly,
made light of his loss, and said that, large though the sum was, it
gave him no real concern, and he would regard it as a fine he had
paid for his rudeness.
The widow sighed and told him he was a fortunate man in being able
to bear such a loss without feeling it.
A fortnight passed, and the Count found himself in comfortable
quarters. As if desirous of monopolizing his company, the widow
invited nobody to the house, and those who paid the ordinary
courtesy calls she speedily dismissed; while gentlemen who had
been in the habit of dropping in of an evening to play cards and sup
with pretty Julie were told by Roko that she was suffering so much
from the fatigues of the ball that she could see no one. One caller,
Peter Trepoff, who came specially to inquire about the Count, was
told that though he had been there he had departed, without saying
where he was going to. All that fortnight she remained very
secluded. She would not accompany the Count when he invited her
to go out, and she so strongly persuaded him not to go that he
yielded and remained indoors. Every fascination, every talent she
possessed, she put forth and exerted to amuse and entertain him,
until he was as pliable as clay in her hands. One night he had retired
to rest, and had been in his room about an hour, when he heard the
handle of his door move. The door was not locked; indeed, there
was no key wherewith to lock it, and he had not concerned himself
about it in any way. Very gently, and almost without a sound, the
latch was raised and the door pushed open. Presently Roko entered